Weekend Odds & Ends

I love the sermons and writings of Charles H. Spurgeon, an English preacher born in 1834. An excerpt from the introduction of The Essential Works of Charles Spurgeon states that he "...was baptized on May 3, 1850...About six months later he delivered his first sermon...in 1851 he became pastor of a small Baptist church...and his first literary work, a gospel tract, was printed in 1853" (published by Barbour Publishing, Inc.; used by permission). No litany of theological degrees; just a transparent heart desperate for Christ. 

My girls have heard me talk about Spurgeon so often, he feels like a personal friend. It's not unusual for them to catch me somewhere in the house pondering something from this thick book. That's just how my younger daughter, an artist like me, found me this past Sunday. We decided to try our hands at our ole friend's likeness: 

At that moment, I couldn't have come up with anything in the world I would rather be doing. I felt like I had hit the jackpot, sitting at that table on a restful afternoon, pens in hand, my gal by my side, doing something together that we both enjoy. She gave me permission to glue her rendition in my commonplace book, under my own.

"Submission and trust compose a condition of character that is peculiar to a renewed soul, but will surely be found in a man if he is indeed saved, for it is the mark of being saved from self-justification and the hatred bred by despair."
                                                                                              --C.H.S.


Are you familiar with the hymn, "Gift of Finest Wheat"? I recall it from my childhood. I love the refrain:
               "You satisfy the hungry heart
                With gift of finest wheat.
                Come give to us, O saving Lord
                The Bread of Life to eat."

Christ is the giver of life, the sustainer of breath, the "God of all Comfort," (2 Corinthians 1:3), our Redeemer who took our sin and shame, "far above all principality and power and might and dominion, and every name that is named" (Ephesians 1:21). I like to play this hymn loudly and often, letting the words and beauty of it, and the love of Him, sink into my heart and mind. Treat yourself to listening, too, here.

A Book Finished...Woo Hoo!
This is how I feel about my latest read, The Johnstown Flood, David McCullough's first book. You know him from other biographies, like John Adams and Truman. 

I had a special reason for reading this book. My great-grandfather was a six-month-old baby in Cambria County, Pennsylvania, when this epic disaster hit Johnstown on May 31, 1889. In doing much family research over the years, I am particularly interested in Cambria County and Pop's childhood home of Summerhill Township, just outside of Johnstown. Since my family is planning a trip to western Pennsylvania this spring, I decided to immerse myself in the details of the tragedy that wiped out almost the entire town, killing 2,209 people. The Johnstown flood was Clara Barton's first encounter of a major disaster as founder of the American Red Cross.

McCullough is a master at taking all sides of an event and winding them together with equal interest. I was just as intrigued by the descriptions of the members of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club (which owned the dam) as I was in the harrowing details of the dam breaking. The havoc and horror that ensued were hard to stomach in some parts. Bodies of humans and animals floating by at top speed, along with debris composed of furniture, homes, clothing, and everything else imaginable...McCullough takes his readers there, to the reality of every moment.  I found it doable even for my oversensitive mind. Read this book and hug your families; rejoice in the warmth of your home, and learn the lesson of heeding warnings. Anyone who has done Titanic research will notice a few similarities. The people of Johnstown thought the world was ending. I'm grateful my Burtnett ancestors lived to tell the tales, but unfortunately, Johnstown is flood-prone; in 1936, they lost their entire farm.

On That Note...

Make sure you do this either outside with the birds singing, or inside in a warm, cozy spot, with a good book in hand! 

"Nibbles, Guinea Pig of Hendersonville"

And who doesn't love a guinea pig?

I'm amazed at the personalities that God

gave to these little creatures, rodents

who are lovable, purring squeakers!

Joyfully, until next time!

Deep Healing, Deep Quiet

My girls and I have been memorizing Psalm 27. Next week, we will come to the final verse:

Wait on the Lord;

Be of good courage,

And He will strengthen your heart;

Wait, I say, on the Lord! (verse 14)

Those who are quick to repeat, "Let go, and let God!" in response to the trials of others seem to have never done just that. David's way of commanding it, however, holds water. He lived it; he knew what it was to wait on the Lord, seek Him for the courage to do it, and allow only Him to strengthen his heart. He expresses the difficulty of waiting in that he says it once more, exclamation point and all.

This has been a year of intense purging and healing, but the renewal continues. I am in a time of painfully waiting on the Lord to perform changes that are out of my control. Make no mistake: nothing is ever in our control. This time, though, there's not even an option for me to try. Several situations in my life have me understanding the rubber-meeting-road meaning of Psalm 27:14, as well as another one that we tend to gloss over: "Be still, and know that I am God," (Psalm 46:10).

For years, I've said of certain trials, "I have to let go; I have to let God work." Usually this meant saying that, then proceeding to turn around and attempt to fix the issue, or smooth things over in some way in order to ease the pain. The Holy Spirit is showing me that these things not only don't work, I end up robbing myself and others of spiritual growth. Paul said in Philippians 3:10:

"...that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death..."

This isn't just for Paul; it should be my desire, too. Suddenly it is, whether I like it or not. I confess that more of these days are filled with my thinking I don't like it, yet knowing that God is growing me to love it. "Letting go and letting God" means just that: really getting out of the way of the living God, rather than reciting a catchy phrase to make myself sound noble, yet still pushing through in my own way. 

Charlotte Mason's students kept what she termed a "Commonplace Book." This is a blank book where I copy poems, verses, or lines that I want to remember. It can also be filled with drawings or doodles as the mood strikes. Yesterday, I copied Whittier's From Day to Day selection:

"In God's own might

We gird us for the coming fight;

And, strong in Him whose cause is ours

In conflict with unholy powers,

We grasp the weapons He has given,--

The Light, the Truth, and Love of Heaven."

                                  From "The Moral Warfare"

On Sunday, I expressed my sympathy to a dear lady whose father-in-law just passed away. She began telling me about the trials of her family's Christmas, and an unfamiliar sensation swept over me. My eyes felt googly, and my body was faint. The truth hit as suddenly as the feeling: I simply cannot take on more stress, regardless of whose it is. It is time for my mind and heart to be still.

This is a period of serious change for me. It requires being intentional about not doing too much. I need to focus on my family, our home, and our school, all under the Holy Spirit's constant guidance. It's all I can handle. My quiet moments are spent with the Lord, and also in lots of reading. He speaks to me about allowing myself to put back the wholesome ideas that have either been lost or never taught. God has given me the gift of the deep enjoyment of being still with books. There is a pleasure in clean reading, bit by bit, that I am relishing.

Well-meaning friends want to give suggestions about what I should "do," but I have to allow God the "doing" while He allows me the stillness. It's counterculture, counterintuitive. Deep healing involves deep quiet. When we have major surgery, aren't we advised to rest and let healing happen? Yet most in our fast-paced culture refuse to stop long enough even for such a concrete example. Stepping off the treadmill requires letting God give me back my breath, renewed. My heart will never be made whole otherwise.